


Salvage

by LadyoftheShield



Series: Crime Alley's Finest [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Streets of Gotham (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Batfam Week 2020, Bonding, Chinese Jason Todd, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Injury Recovery, Jason Todd Has PTSD, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Schizophrenic Colin Wilkes, Well not yet - Freeform, they're getting there ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24285031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheShield/pseuds/LadyoftheShield
Summary: A few days after a mission gone wrong, Colin checks on his mentor.BatFam Week 2020 Day 2: Hurt/Comfort + Underappreciated Family MembersReposted from an anthology.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Colin Wilkes
Series: Crime Alley's Finest [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753129
Kudos: 24
Collections: Batcest-B-Gone, Tales from the Cave





	Salvage

Colin came to a skidding stop on a rooftop and overlooked the streets flush with dawn’s grey light. Adrenaline beat in his chest as the warm morning wind wafted by. It had been a good night, he thought as he wiped blood off his nose.

He should check on Hood, a thought whispered as he scrubbed the sticky red onto his jeans. Colin shoved both hands into his pockets. Hood wasn’t going to want anyone sniffing around while he was recovering. He was an adult. He could take care of himself.

But they hadn’t actually spoken since Hood had gotten hurt. He’d received a few texts from one of Hood’s burner phones, asking him to check on certain people or locations, but beyond that they hadn’t spoken since the ambush at the junkyard three days ago. Hood had promised he’d be up and about in a few days, definitely by their usual Wednesday training session. Colin had a couple more days before he should really begin to get worried.

His hand curled around the phone in his pocket. He could just text Hood. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he discarded it. He and Hood had been working together for almost a year now. Somehow, Colin had managed not to scare him off with- the muttering, or the outbursts, or any of the other weird stuff that ended with doctors interrogating him and prodding at his memory, looking for any excuse to lock him away in a rubber room. Hood had taken all that in stride, and Colin was realizing that it wasn’t just because Hood was a Crime Alley kid like him. Maybe they were more alike than Colin had thought.

Hood was probably asleep. More often than not, he crashed at six in the morning and slept until noon. If he were quiet, he told himself, Hood may not even realize he had been there.

Hood had several safehouses scattered throughout the East End, but Colin knew which one he’d be at. Despite himself, he’d want to keep an eye on the border with Black Mask’s turf. It was the safehouse Colin had visited the most, and where Colin kept the motorbike he’d stolen from Robin, so he had an excuse to come by if he needed one.

The grey light cascading over the streets of Gotham had begun to darken to a ruddy hue when he finally stood on the threshold of the front door. It was a brick apartment, little different from any others on the street except the black trashbags taped over the cracked windowpane. Unlocking the door with the key tied to the drawstring of his hoodie, he stepped inside, lifting up on the knob to keep the top hinge from squeaking.

The scent of bleach and wet paint stung his nose. Newspapers blanketed the kitchen table piled high with tools, weapons and odds and ends. Bags from a mom and pop hardware store perched near the edge of the table. One bag had been pulled down around an open tub of thick grey paint. Colin wrinkled his nose at the overbearing scent, and popped the lid back on, and pushed the bag filled with spray cans away from the edge of the table.

Stripped gun parts and boxes of ammo lay next to coils of wire, pliers, and a roll of electrical tape holding the pages of a small notebook open. None of the words were legible through fingerprints of grey paint staining the pages, although he recognized Hood’s shaky penmanship, except for one printed in careful, albeit lopsided, capital letters - INSULATION - marked with a little star. He recognized the letters, but the whole evaded him, as most words over five letters tended to do.

Stepping away from the table, he moved towards Hood’s room. The door was ajar. Half the knob was missing, the broken metal haft jutting out from the lock. Tension tightened his spine as Colin peered inside the room. The bed was empty. The shelves had been knocked to the floor, their contents scattered across the floor. Thick grey paint had been slopped over the sole window in the room, contrasting with the tan paint on the drywall.

A crash shattered the stillness, accompanied by a sudden influx of cursing. Colin followed the sound to the garage in the back of the building, his insides twisting.

He found Hood gathering fallen tools and stuffing them back into the box. Colin stood in the doorway, and hesitated, unsure what to say. He wore an oversized hoodie, just a tad too large for his frame. The fact he’d managed to find anything at all that was too big for him, Colin thought, was impressive. Except for Killer Croc, and maybe Batman, he’d never met anyone built as tall and imposing as Hood.

Behind Hood, in the far corner opposite the little cot he used on cold nights, one wall had been partially coated in some sort of foam, and the garage door had new white panels installed on it. In the center of the wall, he could see loose wires and tools laying ready for their turn in whatever Hood was working on.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Hood?” he asked, hesitant despite himself. Hood started, and turned to look at him.

“Fuck. Wednesday already?” he asked. Colin tried not to stare. He’d never seen Hood without a mask, even if it was just the domino. Dark shadows clung like bruises to the underside of his wide-set round eyes. Red stubble spilled down his cheeks, his throat, standing out against his bronze skin. He didn’t look as drained and hollow as he had before, but that distant, detached look still lingered in his face.

“Monday, actually,” Colin said, stepping into the room. “About six in the morning.”

Hood threw a wrench into the toolkit. “Is everything OK? Are you ok?”

Colin shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m fine. I just hadn’t heard from you. Are you-”

“Don’t worry about me, kid,” Hood said, scooping the last of the tools up and dumping them into the toolbox. “It takes more than an avalanche of junk to kill me. I would know.” Hood chuckled at some joke that Colin wasn’t privy to. Unease pricked on the back of his neck.

“You got looked at though, right? You said there might be internal bleeding. I know you’re a meta but those were cars and-”

Hood waved a hand. “‘S fine. If it was going to kill me, it would have done that by now.”

Colin shifted, cast a desperate glance at the door. He was missing something. Something important.

Maybe he sensed Colin’s unease, because the almost manic glow in Hood’s face faded. “I’m fine, kid,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Really. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Someone has to,” Colin said, a sudden fierceness bubbling in his chest, “right?”

He hadn’t realized he’d stepped forward until Hood made eye contact again. On his knees, Hood was just about to Colin’s eye level. “Colin, you’re twelve,” he said, “that’s not your job.”

“Too bad.” Colin picked up the tool box, and put it on the nearby metal racks. “I’m giving myself a promotion.”

A cracked chuckle bled from Hood’s throat, speeding up almost to a laugh. Hood leaned forward and rested his face in one paint-stained hand, his shoulders shuddering.

His first instinct was to bolt from the room, but he did not. The only thing worse than being made fun of was being ignored. Reluctant despite himself, Colin slipped over next to Hood, and knelt on the floor beside him. Neither of them spoke for a long time as they sat together on the cold concrete. 

Finally, after what seemed like hours but Colin knew was only a few minutes, Hood’s head lifted again with a long, slow exhale. “Thanks, kid,” he said, his rough voice still unsteady. Awkwardly, Colin reached over and patted his knee. Hood’s callused hand reached over and covered Colin’s pale fingers.

“Are you sure you’re ok?” Colin asked.

This time, Hood gave a low sigh. “The internal damage wasn’t fun but that’s mostly healed now. The rest…” he grimaced. “I’ve got some real bullshit in my brain, Colin. It’s never going away, either. Usually, ‘s not so bad. Bet you can’t even tell most of the time.” He removed his hand off Colin’s. “But certain things make it worse, whether I like it or not. It’ll be fine in a couple days, it’s just getting through it, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Colin said at last, “I get that. Guess that makes two of us with shit for brains.” Despite himself, his voice trembled as he spoke, and he couldn’t make his eyes glide across Hood’s face. He regretted saying anything almost the moment the first syllable left his mouth, but he couldn’t stop it any more than he could fix himself.

Seconds inched by before Hood spoke. “Guess so,” Hood said, then cleared his throat. “Winter’s going to be here soon, you know. I don’t know if you’re planning on staying at the orphanage or not, but- well. If you got sick of the Jesus shit, I thought you might want to crash here. At the very least, it’ll keep you from freezing your ass off when you work on your bike.”

Insulation, Colin realized. That’s what that word meant- it was the newspaper he stuffed inside his jacket, the boxes he curled up in. Something warm swelled in his chest. They were still good. Even with this shit in their heads.

“Thanks,” Colin said, finally locating the words after struggling for a second, “That. you didn’t have to.”

“It’s hardly finished,” Hood snorted as he stretched. “I think I’m done for the night, anyway.”

“Night? It’s almost six-thirty,” Colin pointed out. “It’s morning.”

“Nope. Wrong. It’s not morning until you wake up,” Hood grunted, getting to his feet. “You just got off patrol, right? Come on, I should have something edible around here.”

“That’s stupid, it’s morning when the sun rises,” Colin argued, following Hood to the kitchen, “because then it’s daytime, so it can’t be nighttime.” The microwave had a coat of grey paint slopped on too, he realized. Curiosity reared its head, briefly, then he decided it didn’t matter. Hood might not see things that weren’t there, but whatever shit that curled in Hood’s brain wasn’t his business. What mattered was that they watched each other’s back. As Hood had said when they’d met, Crime Alley brats had to stick together. 

Colin had never expected that they’d stick together this long.


End file.
